


Exile

by Alethia



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels, Explicit Language, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Podfic Available, Snark, Warrior Angel, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3356516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alethia/pseuds/Alethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray's eyes went from Nate crouched on the ground, to Brad pressed against him, to <i>behind </i>Brad...and then they lit up as if fueled by holy fire itself. "Shit, Brad's a Hallmark Holiday card. Brad! Can I pinch your cheeks? Not the ones on your face."</p><p>"Why the <i>fuck</i> do I have wings?" Brad asked, now that space and air and Ray's presence had reminded him just how goatfucked this was. </p><p>Brad could feel his wings—their weight, the slight breeze, he could <i>move</i> them, they made him <i>invisible</i>—"Angels do not have wings. Angels have swords and a bad disposition. What the fuck bullshit is this?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Exile

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the fictionalized characters in the HBO miniseries, _Generation Kill_ , as written by Ed Burns and David Simon and as portrayed by Alexander Skarsgard, Stark Sands, and others. It is a work of fiction, ergo it never happened.
> 
> Written for [](http://sparky77.livejournal.com/profile)[**sparky77**](http://sparky77.livejournal.com/) 's birthday. Many thanks to betas [](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/profile)[**romanticalgirl**](http://romanticalgirl.livejournal.com/) and [](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/), who indulge me late at night. They are superheroes. And all mistakes are my own. Originally posted on [LJ](http://alethialia.livejournal.com/487781.html)

The silence convinced him more than anything. 

He couldn't hear Godfather. He couldn't hear _Nate_. 

That thought made him jerk upright...and then sensation rushed in. Blinking against the sun's light, breathing deep, swallowing the nasty taste in his mouth.

Brad flexed his hands. He wiggled his toes. He felt...human.

Shit.

Nate appeared beside him and crouched down to eye level. He met Brad's gaze, unflinching, and handed over a bottle of water. "All squared away, Brad?"

"My toes are fucking freezing," Brad informed him. "Also, we appear to have abandoned our post, thus leaving it vulnerable to the barbarians at the gate." He took the proffered water and downed some. Better.

His toes were still freezing, though. And Nate looked like he needed to be pushed to the ground and ravished. Thoroughly. Starting with his mouth.

"They'll muddle along without us, Brad. There were a couple other units on guard duty. Gates of heaven and all," Nate said dryly.

"Captain America will surely rise to the occasion. No one will make off with Moses' staff."

"I am assured of this," Nate said solemnly. He couldn't maintain the pretense, though; a wicked, conspiratorial grin peeked through. "Guess now we'll get to see what Godfather's assurances are worth." 

Brad let himself share that smile. "I might have a few estimations, sir."

Nate sent him a look under those ridiculous lashes of his, but didn't reprimand him. "And as to your point, concern for the mission is admirable, but it appears we have a new mission." He sighed and gazed out over the—

" _Christ_ , are we in a cornfield?" Brad asked. Endless rows of green and gold, something out of a catalogue or comic book. 

Nate's lips thinned in displeasure. Brad paused and reconsidered his words. He swallowed, waiting for the telltale pang at taking the Lord's name in vain. 

None came.

"Huh."

"Yes," Nate agreed, his frown disappearing with a shake of his head. "We seem to be entirely cut off from Command. Ray's currently blaspheming in six languages. Possibly more now—it has been five minutes. As for our surroundings...I think we might be in Kansas."

The wind rustled the corn. Brad shivered. 

He gazed at Nate and asked solemnly, "Sir, are we quite sure this isn't hell?"

Nate's smile grew slowly, stirring something in Brad, the intellectual understanding of _want_ connecting to the physical experience of it. 

"If it is, I'm glad you're my team leader, Brad." Nate's hand closed warmly over Brad's bare toes, sending a shock straight through him. 

Brad's breathing turned ragged, warmth suddenly turning scalding, his back and shoulders on _fire_. He scrabbled at his shirt, dimly hearing Nate calling his name, moving in close, but he didn't—

couldn't hear—

white noise screaming—

hurt like searing flesh—

vision tinged black—

And on a breath the pain subsided, for no reason at all. 

Brad simply shook and panted the aftershocks into Nate's shoulder. Nate's palm around his neck anchored him, holding him close, so close. Brad's muscles trembled, sticky sweat pricking at him. He was cold, from his toes to the tip of his nose, everywhere _except_ for his back. His back and where Nate touched him, Nate's fingers rubbing his neck, the skin under his shirt bleeding body heat through and Brad could feel—

Brad turned his face into the warmth of Nate's shoulder. 

Nate's hands tightened and he made a reassuring sound into Brad's ear, nonverbal, but Brad understood— _you're safe now; I've got you_. 

Then Nate stilled. It was jarring enough to make Brad pull away, only far enough to get a look at Nate's face, hating that he didn't just _know_.

Nate wasn't looking at him. Nate was looking _behind_ him.

Brad turned his head.

"The fuck is that?"

Nate reached out a steady hand and stroked his fingers along perfect silvery-gray feathers. Brad sat torn between watching those fingers and watching Nate's face. He settled for the latter, Nate's mouth parted just slightly, open in something like awe.

As he stared at Brad's _wings_. 

Which was just...beyond retarded. Clearly someone was fucking with him. 

Nate's fingers pressed harder, touching thin skin over thin bone. Brad could _feel_ it, the heat and pressure, more new sensations slip-sliding through him. Nate's fingers worked down to the skin of Brad's shoulders, the touch soft, exploratory. 

Brad had wings. Nate was _touching_ him. They were _human_ —though clearly not because oh, yeah, _Brad had wings_. 

The thoughts skidded around his mind, chaotic. It was all suddenly too much, most especially Nate touching him when he was still so raw. The light brushes of his fingers set off a pleasure-pain mix that made him itch to pull Nate closer, see just how cut off from Command they _really_ were. 

That could not fucking happen.

Brad grabbed Nate's hand with his own. "Don't."

Nate stilled. "I'm—did I hurt you?" He tried to pull away. 

Brad held Nate's hand where it was and shook his head. "No," he grunted. Then softer, "No." His hand flexed over Nate's. Something bloomed in Nate's eyes. 

Brad should let go. He would. He planned to. Right after he stopped wanting to wrap himself in this moment, in Nate. 

Rustling in the fields nearby tripped his mental alarm. Brad grabbed Nate and hauled him close, wings coming around to cover both of them. 

Ray's face poked out of the cornfield, like a head resting atop a green corn body. He scrunched up his face in confusion. "The fuck did they go?"

Nate breathed calmly, mouth inches from Brad's, body pressed to his obscenely. 

Brad's focus narrowed precipitously. Nate's thighs framed his own. One of Nate's hands braced himself on the ground, right underneath Brad's ass. The other curled around Brad's shoulder and arm, touching skin. Brad wanted to map the hard muscle and flat planes he could feel against him, drag his tongue along bare skin, hear Nate call his name. 

It was starting to get rather...desperate.

"I think you can stand down, Brad," Nate said softly.

Brad folded his wings behind him and let go.

Nate shifted back. Slightly.

Ray crowed when he caught sight of them, then disappeared. His voice did not. "Found 'em! Hey, Gunny, mission fucking accomplished! They're over here, all cozied up in a little love nest, like I fucking told you they would be!" he shouted to the others. Either that or he'd started narrating his existence.

Could go either way. 

Louder rustling announced his approach, though he started talking long before he appeared. "Yo, you two were my first recon mission in this limited, yet fine-looking form, and I aced that shit; I'm a man now," he proclaimed, proudly swaggering into Brad's little clearing. His eyes went from Nate crouched on the ground, to Brad pressed against him, to _behind_ Brad...and then they lit up as if fueled by holy fire itself. "Shit, Brad's a Hallmark Holiday card. Brad! Can I pinch your cheeks? Not the ones on your face."

"Why the _fuck_ do I have wings?" Brad asked, now that space and air and Ray's presence had reminded him just how goatfucked this was. 

Brad could feel his wings—their weight, the slight breeze, he could _move_ them, they made him _invisible_ —"Angels do not have wings. Angels have swords and a bad disposition. What the fuck bullshit is this?" Brad looked an accusation at Nate.

Nate shook his head, as lost as Brad. He put even more distance between them, something approaching respectable. 

Mike slipped silently from the surrounding corn. His eyes flicked to Brad's wings, only a slight catch in his stride betraying his surprise. Then he ambled over to them, shaking his head. "For once Ray's hyperbole ain't so hyperbolic."

"Hey! I was fucking right about NAMBLA and you know it," Ray called.

Nate looked up, his throat and chin limned by the blazing sun. "Everyone good to go?" he asked.

"'Sides being corporeal and in a Kansas cornfield," Mike drawled. "Unless we got a situation here."

"I'm not a fucking euphemism," Brad muttered. He pushed himself to standing, feeling his olive shirt give way, ripped from earlier. He looked at its tattered remains. "Fuck."

"And didn't anyone tell you you're not allowed to use 'ain't' and 'hyperbole' in the same sentence?" Ray continued on. Nate snorted and stood. 

"Must have missed that day at school," Mike said blandly.

Brad balled up the shirt and shoved it in his pocket. He pulled his wings in as much as he could. From the others' expressions, it didn't do much.

Ray just threw Brad's boots at him. 

"What's the sitrep, Gunny?" Nate asked, ever mission-focused. 

"Sent our guys off in pairs to scout the surrounding areas, see if Godfather didn't have a purpose in sending us here. Rudy and Pappy found a house a couple klicks out. No signs of humans, though," Mike said.

Nate nodded. "Good, that'll be our next move."

Brad nodded when Poke appeared. He took the wings in stride. Then Walt, Christeson, and Stafford tumbled from the fields, like a pile of overeager puppies. The sight of Brad brought them up short. 

"Yo, dog, Iceman's stacked," Stafford muttered.

Christeson frowned at him. "I don't think that's what that means."

"Screwby."

Brad sighed. "No, this isn't hell at all."

***

"First he sidelines us, making us glorified guard dogs during the motherfucking end times—because you wouldn't need death-dealing warriors during a holy war, that'd make far too much sense—and now we're traipsing through a Kansas cornfield wearing desert camo. And Brad's a fucking fairy. Christ. The business end of Godfather's crack pipe must be hot to the fucking touch." Ray stomped through another row of corn, treating each one as a personal affront to his warrior spirit.

And _he_ didn't even have wings. 

"We obey our orders, Ray. Our mission now is not to do our original mission."

"Unless the gilt rays of divine fuckin' intervention are shining down upon you, Brad—which, by the way, would be just a little gay—we don't _have_ any orders!"

Walt broke in then: "Yeah, but Ray, you said you missed bein' in the field." 

Ray rounded on him, thrusting his arms out to grab at the corn. "I didn't mean a _literal_ field!" He shook the cornstalks as if to prove the point.

"Man, you don't gotta hurt the corn. It didn't do anything to you," Walt said, a little furrow between his brows. His eyes were crinkling at the corners, though. 

Brad let himself smile—anyone fucking this successfully with Ray deserved at least that much. 

Ray was on a roll. "I meant, as any brilliant transcendent being would, _the field_ ," he said, waving his arm to encompass the world, the universe, all manner of existence. "Wine, pussy, and song, motherfucker. You know what a dearth of quality pussy's heaven's got. It's like false fucking advertising."

Nate called to them from behind. "What's the hold up, team one?"

"Ray's having an existential crisis," Brad called back. 

"Can he have it on the move?"

"No need; we're here. Because _he_ is just that fucking good," Ray called back.

Up ahead, Rudy and Pappy rose from where they'd dug in, observing the yellow farmhouse they'd scouted, nestled next to a no-shit red and white barn. Brad headed for their position. 

Nate jogged ahead. Brad did not stare at his ass as he did so. At all. 

"Sir, any word on our new mission?" Pappy asked Nate. 

"Pussy," Ray answered.

Nate didn't miss a beat. "Not as of yet, but I remain hopeful that we'll receive our new orders soon. What's the sitrep here?"

"Dead as Ray's dick," Pappy drawled.

"You know you want some," Ray shot back instantly.

Nate nodded, unfazed. "Then I suppose it's time to announce ourselves."

"Sir, the rear entrance offers good cover for an assault," Brad offered. "Rudy and Pappy can cover us while Walt and Ray take our right flank."

Nate turned to him, clearly amused. "Or we could knock."

***

Knocking was anticlimactic. No lights on, nobody home. Hell, the door wasn't even locked. That was just bad security. Ray's muttered, "This is recon for retards," wasn't off-base.

After clearing the house and barn, they congregated in the kitchen. The place was homey, if a bit barren—handmade knickknacks, country-style decorating, and yet there were no pictures. Not anywhere. Like a house waiting for occupants to fill in the empty spaces. And completely at odds with the full fields outside. 

Something didn't fit here. 

Christeson looked unsure. "We didn't fall, did we? You gotta choose that, right?"

Brad's mouth tightened at mention of falling. Nate's quick glance said he hadn't missed the reaction. But Nate didn't press, instead shaking his head at Christeson. "No, we didn't fall. At the very least, Brad's wings tell us we're not fully human, like the fallen. Unless there's something about humanity we weren't told."

"Godfather, keep something from us?" Brad said. 

"Nah, dawg, we didn't fall. We were sent here to civilize these motherfuckers," Poke offered.

Ray cut in: "Civilize? Fuck, dude, if this were civilization there'd at least be a whorehouse. Look what we got: a crocheted altar to Paula-fucking-Deen country living and no pussy to be found. This fuckin' _sucks_." 

"On that note, everyone should grab some sleep. We're on 25% watch here; Mike and Pappy will take first shift."

Brad headed for the door.

***

"Thought I'd find you here. Hiding?" Nate asked from the doorway. He'd paused just outside, some kind of propriety there, as if boundaries existed for them. 

How very Nate.

"Thinking," Brad corrected, looking at his tan hands against the bright white sheets of the bed. The mattress felt too soft underneath him. Everything about this room made him feel dirty. "Need quiet for that, charming as Ray and Walt's flirtation may be. Master bedroom is yours by right, so of course you'd refuse it." 

He hadn't counted on Nate knowing him just that well, knowing where Brad would go to avoid him. He should have. 

Nate finally entered the room, regarding him steadily. "What'd you need to think about, outside the company of your brothers in arms?"

Brad looked at his combat boots, so out of place here. "I think...I may have caused all this. This punishment."

Nate kneeled, trying to catch Brad's eye. "We don't know it's a punishment, Brad. Even if we did, would Godfather punish all of us for the transgressions of one?"

Brad looked at him, frank: "Yes."

Nate's mouth twitched. "Fine, you have a point. But the larger argument still stands: you're one of Godfather's fiercest warriors, beyond reproach. Why should you be punished?"

"I should love all my brothers equally, but I don't."

Nate shook his head. "I'm not—"

Brad reached out, curled a hand around the back of Nate's neck. Nate watched him, remaining perfectly still as Brad leaned in and pressed their mouths together—just the lightest of touches, a ghost of a kiss. Everything in him wanted more, further, _now_ , but he clamped down on that reaction and pulled back.

He had a point here.

"My love is imperfect," he reiterated, voice rough, moved beyond words by the sight of Nate's eyes fluttering open. From where they'd closed. When Brad kissed him.

Nate sat there, motionless, but his eyes gave him away—

Then he was up on his knees and in Brad's space, his kiss fierce and consuming. No gentleness here, pure force in it, a hand yanking at Brad's neck, pulling him closer as he licked into Brad's mouth, thumb tilting his jaw _just so_. Brad kissed back, gave in, offered Nate anything—

Nate made a small, wounded sound in his throat and broke away. He dropped his forehead to Brad's chest, making that sound again—

Which was when Brad finally made sense of what he was seeing, Nate's back undulating under his shirt. Brad yanked the shirt out of the way. 

Wings—motherfucking _wings—_ unfurled, seemingly from nowhere. Nate's pained noise and shaky panting were the only accompaniment. The wings spread and finally settled, Brad staring blankly all the while. 

This was what happened to Brad. This was what Nate saw. Now it was Brad's turn. 

Nate's wings were beautiful, white and gold and maybe iridescent. They looked like Nate—insofar as wings could look like a person—inspiring and commanding and regal. Brad stroked his fingers along a few feathers; he couldn't help himself.

Nate huffed out a breath, hot against Brad's neck. "Your wings appeared when I touched you," he said, looking up at Brad, mentally connecting the dots, weight in his eyes. 

Not just touched, touched with _intent_. "So they did." 

Nate nodded once, some kind of decision made. He leaned up again, settling his mouth on Brad's, this kiss different from the other two. Not tentative or demanding, this one was filled with longing and restrained hunger. 

Brad had never understood before, why humans spent so much time doing this. But kissing Nate—you could _say_ things with a kiss, with the press of mouths and slide of tongue. And with Nate—who wouldn't want to do this all the time? Brad tilted his head and kissed back, carefully sliding his arms around Nate to pull him closer. 

Nate's wings fluttered against Brad's hands, then settled. Nate moaned into his mouth and pressed more urgently to Brad's body, hard against his thigh. 

Brad's hands began to explore, tracing patterns down Nate's back to his ass, light fingers skimming over the skin where wing met shoulder blade. 

Nate gasped something shaky and shocked, body moving restlessly against Brad's. Brad grinned and bit Nate's lower lip, moving into him, with him. 

"Fucking tease," Nate muttered. He shoved himself to his feet and promptly crawled in Brad's lap, finding Brad's mouth again and thrusting his tongue _in_. He ground his hips into Brad, whiting out Brad's brain, making him grab at Nate's thigh and hold him _right the fuck there_. 

Nate was merciless. He twined around Brad, refusing to let him breathe, let him shove clothes out of the way, do anything other than exactly what Nate demanded. Cock to cock, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, they kissed and bit and thrust against each other until finally, to the rough scrape of fabric and a stinging kiss to his jaw, Brad tilted his head back and came.

Everything shook, after—his hands, his muscles, even his wings. Nate was right there with him, breathing shallowly as he slumped against Brad, drained, almost mindless. Nate was _never_ mindless. He was too guarded for that. 

Sensation prickled at Brad's skin, from fire to ice like _that_. 

Brad reacted—he shifted up and folded his wings around both of them just as they heard the telltale _snick_ of an angel's appearance. But this was no brother of theirs—he must count himself among the fallen. All heat left the room. 

The angel looked confused for a moment, unable to see them through Brad's wings, though he could sense them well enough. He held his sword at the ready.

A moment was all Nate needed. He shifted in Brad's hold, something glinting in his hand. Then he rolled off the bed and was on the intruder in an instant. No fight, not even a contest—Nate took him completely by surprise. He struck a killing blow, no hesitation. 

The fallen angel's eyes went wide with surprise as his essence flared and abruptly burned out. 

The body never touched the floor, merely an outline of ash falling haphazardly. Nate exhaled and observed it for a still moment. He looked at the sword in his hand, conjured from nothing.

"I didn't even think about it; it just appeared," Nate muttered, observing the blade in the light. 

Brad swallowed thickly. 

Nate turned back, something like vindication in his eyes. "You see, Brad? It's not a punishment. We're here to slay dragons. Godfather sent us hunting."

Brad looked dubiously from Nate to the floor and back again. "Movement to contact? You realize that's just another way of saying Godfather is using us as bait."

Nate shrugged and rejoined him on the bed. The fingers of his free hand fiddled with a belt loop on Brad's pants. "We control the tempo of the fight."

Brad grabbed hold of his wrist, light, rubbing the pads of his fingers against the thin skin there. "And this?"

Nate regarded him steadily. "This is whatever we want it to be."

***

"Hey! What's with the light show?" Ray skidded to a stop just inside the door and stared at the ash outline on the floor. "That's what I'm talkin' about! Somebody got some." His eyes lifted to Nate, then Brad. "In more ways than one," he finished with a saucy grin.

"The fuck you sayin'?" Walt asked, appearing behind Ray. 

"Fearless leader and Iceman over here got some. And I was beginning to think Godfather was just a big cocktease."

Brad raised an eyebrow at him. "Ray...do you have wings?"

***

Fin. Feedback is adored.

**Author's Note:**

> Podfic by [](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/profile)[**chemm80**](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/) can be found [here](http://chemm80.livejournal.com/123073.html).


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